


A Dream is a Wish your Hard-on Makes

by Leka



Category: Star Trek
Genre: M/M, Oblivious Jim, PWP, only for a little, wet dreams, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 21:16:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17332505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leka/pseuds/Leka
Summary: It starts out ambiguously. Shapes and shadows, nameless sensations, and a gut-wrenching shiverspidering out from his spine to his fingertips and toes, carving itself into the deepestrecesses of his very being. A breath, hot and familiar against his ear, hoarse and reverent allat once. It whispers something, but just as Jim strains to hear the syllables he suddenly findshimself blinking awake at his ceiling, boneless and bewildered. There's a wetness pooled on hiscrotch that demands his attention. Jim covers his eyes with his hands and releases a groan ofanother context entirely as he registers his first wet dream since he was seventeen.





	A Dream is a Wish your Hard-on Makes

**Author's Note:**

> Hi so my girlfriend felt like "writing the porn [she wants] to see in the world," and she's too impatient to just make her own account. She says that when she does, she'll repost this under the name "BonerMisnomer" so we'll see if that works out.

It starts out ambiguously. Shapes and shadows, nameless sensations, and a gut-wrenching shiver  
spidering out from his spine to his fingertips and toes, carving itself into the deepest  
recesses of his very being. A breath, hot and familiar against his ear, hoarse and reverent all  
at once. It whispers something, but just as Jim strains to hear the syllables he suddenly finds  
himself blinking awake at his ceiling, boneless and bewildered. There's a wetness pooled on his  
crotch that demands his attention. Jim covers his eyes with his hands and releases a groan of  
another context entirely as he registers his first wet dream since he was seventeen.

The chronometer's soft glare finds him in the darkness- 0600 hours. He feels groggy, body heavy  
and a little clumsy as he rolls out of bed and tosses his ruined sleep pants towards a hamper.  
What was that about, anyway? He scrubs at his eyes and tries to remember anything since lying down  
the night before. "Lights at twenty-five percent," he grumbles as he heads towards his bathroom.  
Spock's probably meditating, he figures, remembering several times the half-Vulcan had to remind  
him that he does _not_ , in fact, require sleep in quite the same way humans do. He also  
remembers several times he's argued back that he's half-human too and should learn to take it  
easy once in a while before his panties end up permanently bunched. Jim huffs an amused breath  
as he practically sees his first officer's head tilt to remind him, _'I wear nearly the same_  
_regulation garments as yourself, Captain.'_

Without thinking he walks right into their shared bathroom, expecting to find it empty. Bright light  
blinds him for a moment, but not long enough for him to miss Spock's almost surprised non-   
expression as his eyes flick once down his body. He instinctively covers himself and apologizes,  
"Shit! Sorry, Spock. I thought you'd be long-gone by now. I shoulda knocked, I'll just-"

"It is of no consequence," Spock interrupts him with a shake of his head, eyes professionally  
centered on his, "I am finished." He leans over the sink and spits, turning and leaving with his  
toothbrush. "Okay," Jim says after him lamely. He starts about his daily ritual, something about  
the day in general feeling different in a way he can't really describe yet. When his mind and  
hand inevitably wander in the shower, he finds himself a little over-sensitized and again wonders  
at what he must have been dreaming about.

In the mess hall, McCoy becomes the predictably unwilling recipient of this news. "Christ kid, I  
dunno," he grouches over his coffee, "What do you want, a physical? You feel different somehow?"  
Jim doesn't like the idea of any extra prodding and poking. He's allergic to things as mundane  
as dust tribbles or Betazoid cuisine and as far-fetched as Andorian aphrodisiac compatibility powder.  
And before you ask, the last one was an accident. Yes, really. "Not really," Jim replies with a  
shrug. Everything _does_  feel pretty normal, after all. He doesn't hurt anywhere. There's just this... Feeling in the back  
of his mind that he can't shake. It feels like he's forgotten something, and fruitlessly he  
tries to remember more about the dream. It feels important, if only because he can't access it. And if he's  
a little aimlessly horny, well, for Jim Kirk that's normal too. He digs into his breakfast.

When he sees Spock on the bridge, he feels a little relieved and a little agitated all at once.  
It's odd. He settles in his chair and lets Alpha shift ease slowly by. After a comfortable game  
of chess and dinner, he goes back to his room, finishes some reports before bed, and waits.

The next dream he has is more specific, and when he wakes he can remember more of it.  
He feels hands on him, warm fingertips and searing palms sliding over his chest, ribs, thighs,  
hips. They curl into his muscles, pull him close against a firm chest. The foggy pleasure of the  
dream swirls around him. He feels a pressure against his ass, and it knocks the breath from him.  
There's that whispering he can't quite parse again, but this time, he can feel the owner's chin  
resting on his shoulder, his lips brushing the tip of his ear. He moans, his back arching, those  
solid arms holding him close as his body writhes. Jim realizes in a dazed sort sort of way that  
oh, he's being fucked, and the nerves at the base of his spine light up white-hot in an  
answering swoon of pleasure. He feels his mouth moving, begging over that constant hum of  
whispered oaths in his ear, words he wants to but can't follow as he gapes and goes rigid, heart  
skipping a beat as his stomach drops and he comes hard.

Jim opens his eyes to the ceiling, his back still arched and mouth slightly open. He lets out a  
breath he was holding and relaxes, a little shivery all over. This time, he throws the entire  
blanket into the hamper and takes a minute to come back to himself. Not a shy man about his  
body, he investigates, his member spent in his hand. He presses lightly against his asshole to  
feel it twitch and glances over at the chronometer to see if he has time for a little more. It  
glares 0637 hours back at him. He swears as he scrambles to his feet, strips, and heads to the  
bathroom.

He really doesn't expect to be blinded yet again by the bathroom lights, greeted by what was  
until recently a rare sight of Spock with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. He nods slowly,  
greeting, "Captain," with apparently perfect poise.

"This is weird, right?" Jim blurts, belatedly grabbing a towel off of the counter to wrap around  
his waist. Once is coincidence: twice is a pattern.

"To what do you refer, specifically?" the Vulcan asks, eyebrow climbing.

"I've never walked in on you before, and now two days in a row? It's like you're sleeping in.  
Are you feeling okay?"

Spock's eyes flick away from his again. They're gone only a moment, but something in Jim's mind  
tells him it's something like trepidation. Embarrassment? The last time Spock was embarrassed  
about his health, Jim ended up flat on his back in the desert sands of Vulcan, fighting his  
first officer for his life. He presses further, "What's wrong?"

Spock blinks slowly, which is essentially a heaving sigh by his standards, and relents.  
"Captain-" he begins,

"Jim," Jim corrects, "Just... Call me Jim. We're in our quarters, for Pete's sake."

"Jim," Spock repeats, choosing not to ask who Pete is, "I will admit that I have been having  
trouble falling asleep in recent weeks. There is a certain... Collection of data, which has  
occupied my attention to a point of distraction." Spock's gaze refocuses on Jim, his back  
straightening minutely as he continues, "I assure you, my focus has not and will not waver on  
the bridge. However, during my attempts to meditate before sleep, the possible results of time  
on said collection of data continue to keep my interest despite my intent to clear my mind."

"Uhh," Jim mumbles, trying to translate quickly, "Okay... You're saying there's something you're  
learning about that you're so interested in that you can't think of anything else later? Is it  
an experiment?" he asks. He's trying but it's just a little too early for Spock-level  
vocabulary.

Spock hesitates a fraction of a second and blinks before answering, "It is possible to describe  
the problem that way."

What a big, bold, ambiguous not-lie that is.

"Could you say, then, that when the experiment is over, you'll be cured?"

"On the contrary. I hope the experiment, so to speak, is never fully concluded." It sounds like  
a confession. Of what, exactly, Jim isn't sure, but he feels unexpected heat in his cheeks all  
the same.

Not sure how to respond, Jim retreats back to his quarters so Spock can finish his routine  
before getting under the sonics and trying to get into a normal headspace for Alpha shift.

They're on a long stretch between planets of any notability, the relatively small environments  
hosting mostly non-sentient flora and fauna around this particular star system. Jim wonders if  
maybe it's very young, or conversely, old enough that its sentient beings have developed spaceflight  
and left. Visits planetside are generally quiet, data valuable for data's sake and a welcome  
lack of violence. Spock soaks up the quiet like a cat in a sun spot. Jim spends his time  
alternating between somewhat one-sided mindless conversation with his first officer and  
exploring, looking for evidence of past civilizations or an entrance to a cave of mole-people or  
something. The ensuing debate with Spock about how he can't technically prove there _aren't_  mole-people  
without digging into the planet's crust and showing him ends up transforming into a debate about  
the pros and cons of Schroedinger's Cat and takes most of their time until the science team  
beams up with plentiful fresh samples.

Jim goes to Bones to get drunk and ponder his latest sex dream.

Hissing after a mouthful of what passes for whiskey, McCoy bemoans, "What is your problem?? Am I  
your therapist? I don't want to hear about you getting fucked in yer dreams!" It's the end of  
the day and he's out of patience.

"Try not to think about the what, and think about the why," Jim reasons with him, "It's happened  
twice in a row after an absence of literal years. It feels like the dreams are real, like I'm  
not the one making them happen."

Bones tries to be a good sport and considers it before replying, "You think someone's projecting  
those thoughts into your head?" Not able to stop himself, he laughs and continues, "Blaming your  
dirty mind on the devil hasn't worked since Catholic school, Jimmy-boy."

"I'm serious!" Jim insists, but trying to describe his somewhat vague dreams around the start of  
a slur as he gets tipsy isn't turning out so well. It tends to devolve into laughter or points  
that, by the time Jim gets to the end of them, he's forgotten the beginning. The session ends  
when Jim gets up and wanders home, wondering why he's still so distracted. He begins to wonder if he  
and Spock are experiencing similar symptoms and starts to think about getting the air filters  
changed.

He lays down and looks at the chronometer, realizing that unlike Spock, he's been able to fall  
asleep pretty easily. He reads 0318 hours and figures it's the latest he's been awake in a  
while. But as he shuts his eyes, a little buzz makes itself known in his lower back. It skips up  
his spine, and a moan threatens from the back of his throat as his skin starts to tingle, the  
sudden sensitivity turning him right on. Whatever this feeling is, it's not coming from his subconscious. 

"Lights at 25 percent," Jim says, forcing his eyes open. He hasn't fallen asleep, so this can't  
be a dream. And he's still technically intoxicated, but hey, he's totally conscious, and all the while  
want is starting to smolder in his gut. He shucks his pants and palms himself, groaning when he  
finds his member well on its way to half-hard.

He twitches when he gets the sensation of being touched, even clearer than the  
night before. He marvels at long and warm phantom-fingers tracing against the insides of his  
thighs, feather-light. Jim is bewildered and horny, following his instincts as he spreads his  
legs apart, hitching his knees up. He feels hot, pausing to pull his shirts off and throw them  
away. When he lays back down, he's rewarded with the sensation of hands pressing more firmly  
into him, nails grazing skin, but when he looks he sees no one.

He shivers and turns his head against an arm, groaning in frustration. Those fingers wander  
lower, closer to where he wants them, and he doesn't fight the urge to start rubbing at his  
member again. But despite the titillating pressure, the gentle teasing stays gentle. Jim gets  
impatient, licking his fingers on his free hand to circle at his hole in apology before pressing  
in. The whine it drags out of him is almost startling, but the feeling of real touch instead of  
ghostly sensation feels so good. He presses harder, slowly fucking himself and really starting  
to wish he had something better, bigger.

Jim starts to fantasize a little to appease the fire in his belly. He imagines who he might need  
to fuck him the way he's been literally dreaming of. It's not long before deep brown eyes meet  
his in his mind's eye, and just as the name comes to his lips his mind is reeling at the  
shatteringly perfect fit of Spock occupying the space behind him, inside him. Fingers pumping  
faster, he starts gasping. It feels like he's remembering something, a puzzle piece sliding into  
place, and he can imagine Spock bent over him so easily, holding his legs open and fucking into  
him like a champion.

Even if he wanted to, he can't stop the near constant whimpering in the back of his throat as  
his hips thrust uselessly. He rides higher and higher, realizing belatedly that he's begun  
chanting Spock's name in an effort to send himself over the edge.

He's just getting close when he hears a knock at his bathroom door and his heart drops, hands  
instantly still. He's frozen, mind reeling for some excuse for Spock having fucking _heard_  him  
going to town on himself. But Spock doesn't wait long for an answer, stepping into Jim's quarters  
in a black robe. He commands the lights to eighty percent and Jim sits up, putting his hands on  
the bed, but doesn't speak. He can feel his face reddening, feeling utterly caught, and for once  
his tongue is tied.

When Spock steps closer, Jim can see a lush green blooming across the Vulcan's cheeks, eyes as  
deep and black as space herself. "You underestimate my hearing capabilities, Jim," he murmurs,  
voice serene and dark and striking all at once. He approaches the bed and reaches a hand towards  
his captain's face, caressing his cheek.

Jim releases himself to clutch at Spock's hand, the real feeling of his flesh against him making  
him tremble with want. But even close to losing control he has to ask, "Do you want this?"

Spock narrows his eyes, an expression Jim will come to know as amusement. "Jim," he practically  
purrs, "I confess. It did not occur to me that you might understand my distraction so  
personally."

When Jim doesn't catch on right away, Spock slides off his robe and throws a leg over the bed to  
lean over him. He finally spreads those long, strong fingers into place to push his thighs  
apart further. And then, hovering inches above him, he asks, "Do you want this?"

Jim can't take the tension anymore, taking Spock's face in his hands to pull him crashing on  
top of him, pressing their lips together in emphatic answer. Spock effortlessly steals what's  
left of his breath away, somehow knowing exactly how and where to press his lips, bite, or lick  
to turn Jim into a shaking mess. Any time he tries to pull away and breathe his hands find silky  
hair or surprisingly soft, pointed ears and automatically hold tight again.

His voice comes out shaky as he tries to catch his breath and asks, "Why are you in my head?"

Spock pulls back to look at him seriously. "What are you talking about?"

"I can't stop dreaming about you," he confesses, and suddenly it feels so much bigger now that  
he's said it aloud.

Spock's expression softens in such minute detail that at first Jim thinks he's imagining it. But  
then Spock is kissing him like he's precious and leaning his body weight against him and it's  
getting difficult to remember what they were talking about.

After minutes of slow, drugging kisses, Spock pulls off of him to explain, "At some point when  
we were unconscious or separated, our minds have sought each other out to the point that they  
have achieved a light meld without us physically touching. Vulcans generally consider bonds  
formed so spontaneously to be a thing of myth."

"What does that mean?" Jim asks. Two of Spock's fingers prod at his hole and he shivers, body  
coming alive beneath his attentions.

"Essentially, Jim, you want me," he inserts a finger. Jim can't bother to wonder how it's wet as  
his back bows and his insides twist. He moans and his first officer continues over him, "And I  
want you." He fucks him gently on his finger but wastes no time making room for a second,  
dragging on, "I shielded my mind from yours in waking hours to respect your privacy, but it  
turns out my efforts were ineffective and unnecessary." He pulls back, three dripping fingers slipping  
from Jim's ass, and asks if he's ready.

The look his captain gives Spock takes him back, unexpected sureness behind the previous fog of  
arousal as he orders, "Fuck me."

Jim throws his head back as finally, _finally_ , Spock buries himself in him. He comes apart,  
gasping as the hips pressed firmly against him pull away and push back in, picking up speed. He  
pants and pulls Spock close on top of him to drag his nails down his back as he forgets how to  
speak properly. "Please," he hears himself begging, but for what he can't tell anymore. When Spock  
responds to his cries by fucking him harder, he can only get louder. The slapping of skin on  
skin echoes against the bulkhead, and he's almost certain people are going to hear him from the  
hallway. He's lucky he doesn't often take Gamma shift.

He can't care anyway. Spock is fucking him hard, filling him in just the right way, and Jim's  
toes are curling as he clutches him closely and rides it out. He's so close and he's squealing  
like a bitch on his first officer's cock and maybe he should feel some kind of shame as a  
captain, but it just doesn't bear any sting when Spock's found his prostate and is ruthlessly  
rubbing against it over and over again.

The orgasm that pulses through him comes as a surprise, a punch to the gut that has his vision  
whiting out a little and his voice cracking. He's unraveling and when Spock comes in him he can  
feel his body twitching around it. He imagines his body milking it out of him and a final  
glob of cum leaks from his spent member.

Jim can feel Spock's concern for his comfort as he goes to shift his weight off of him, and  
takes hold of his shoulders to pull him back down. "Don't you dare move," he murmurs against the  
Vulcan's neck, aftershocks still occasionally spreading through him. Spock leans closer to  
whisper something he can't understand. Instantly Jim recalls his frustration at the confusion  
from his dreams.

"You said that before. What does it mean?" he asks.

Gently shaking his head, Spock replies, "I cherish thee."

The End!


End file.
